effort, and as if by chance. Literature to
Herbert was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupation.
All thought of fame had long fled his soul. He cared not for being
disturbed; and he would throw down his Plato for Don Quixote, or close
his Aeschylus and take up a volume of Madame de Sevigne without a
murmur, if reminded by anything that occurred of a passage which might
contribute to the amusement and instruction of his wife and daughter.
Indeed, his only study now was to contribute to their happiness. For
him they had given up their country and society, and he sought, by his
vigilant attention and his various accomplishments, to render their
hours as light and pleasant as, under such circumstances, was
possible. His muse, too, was only dedicated to the celebration of any
topic which their life or themselves suggested. He loved to lie under
the trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady Annabel; and encouraged
Venetia, by the readiness and interest with which he invariably
complied with her intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurred
to her for his verse. A life passed without the intrusion of a single
evil passion, without a single expression that was not soft, and
graceful, and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a most
accomplished and creative spirit, required not the distractions
of society. It would have shrunk from it, from all its artificial
excitement and vapid reaction. The days of the Herberts flowed on in
one bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentle
pleasures. Beneath them was the green earth, above them the blue sky.
Their spirits were as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime.

The hour of twilight was approaching, and the family were preparing
for their daily walk. Their simple repast was finished, and Venetia
held the verses which her father had written in the morning, and which
he had presented to her.

'Let us descend to Spezzia,' said Herbert to Lady Annabel; 'I love an
ocean sunset.'

Accordingly they proceeded through their valley to the craggy path
which led down to the bay. After passing through a small ravine, the
magnificent prospect opened before them. The sun was yet an hour above
the horizon, and the sea was like a lake of molten gold; the colour
of the sky nearest to the sun, of a pale green, with two or three
burnished streaks of vapour, quite still, and so thin you could almost
catch the sky through them, fixed, as it were, in this go